


gold in my bones

by alpacas



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, EVIL BEST FRIENDS: the FANFIC, Gen, absolutely no romance besides the critrole otp that is caleb/a gigantic black hole of angst, and EVIL PEOPLE, and also is about EVIL CALEB, and also set like ten odd years before the game, au au au au this is very au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-23 17:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacas/pseuds/alpacas
Summary: caleb never broke. (it gets worse from there.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS FOR EVERYTHING UP TO E50. YOU KNOW WHICH ONES.**
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> so this morning it was a joke on tumblr and now it's a thing? that i will update when i feel like? and will probably be Terrible for all concerned? i am sorry? question mark? a lot of this story is inspired by [this](http://ofstarstuff.tumblr.com/post/181860290443/some-people-are-surprised-that-caleb-was-low-level) tumblr post pointing out just how unusual high stats are outside of all powerful dnd parties, and how like, an int score of 16 makes you roughly a _genius_.
> 
> also i am working on the assumption that 'bren' is short for 'brendan' and than caleb's parents weren't actually THAT tacky that they literally named their fire son fire. because.
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> title from 'the beauty surrounds' by houses:
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> there's some gold  
> in my bones  
> that i told you about.  
> so i'm pulling out my teeth and  
> burying them deep under ground.
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> there's some lights  
> in your eyes  
> that i follow about.  
> but they're dimming quick,  
> and you're getting sick, so now i wander out alone.
> 
> all my love  
> is circling the drain now.

* * *

 

 

 

 _The traitors are cowering. It's pathetic, really, enough to make Bren actually angry: normally, this is just duty, just a job, nothing to get worked up about. But when they start cowering, acting like whimpering animals — something about it makes his hands shake. His gut twist up. Die with some fucking dignity! Don't scream! Don't plead! Don't beg! Shut up!, he's yelled a few times, even as the flames rise. Shut up, shut up, I don't want to hear it, **halt**_!

 _He's angry, he's shaking, he's angry, the flames are rising and he needs to leave, go before even he is consumed, and the little boy in his mother's trembling arms is crying. Shut up! **Shut up**_!

 _That's when_ the thing _happens again. In the spaces between his words_.

 

 

 

 

 

Trent cannot stand for his proteges to appear slovenly, to reflect on him poorly, of course. Bren is up at dawn, pressing his uniform, polishing every buckle and leather strap, scrubbing himself red and raw until the pain comes back around to satisfying, to better, to what he needs. Skips breakfast and lunch, sipping only at a cold mug of coffee, nodding along to whatever Eod says without really listening.

Eod, bless the gods, understands, and Bren feels better about ignoring him, jumping in every so often with a question his friend doesn't know the answer to anyway, Eod talking about some girl or some guy and Bren bursting forth: "It's only the third time this has happened, right?"

"Ja, ja, so, Hilde —"

Or, a little later on:

"It's not like I know what it is either, so he can't be cross really, right?"

"Ja, ja. Anyway, I was full speed after these fucking traitors —"

All through the afternoon.

It's only when Astrid comes up to them in the canteen, slides next to Eod on the bench, that Bren is kind of able to pull himself out of his head — she has that effect on him, but even today her pull is weakened, her beautiful eyes less beautiful. "Well?" Bren asks anxiously.

"Well, what?" She blinks at them both, raises one beautiful eyebrow. "What?" she asks, meaning _are you talking about_ , and then sighs. " _What?_ " _happened that I am missing,_ she implies.

"Bren —" Eod says.

"I fucked up," Bren interrupts, burying his face in his hands.

"What did you do, _Süsser_?" Astrid asks, amused.

"Don't laugh," Eod mutters.

Bren drops one of his hands and rubs his forehead with the other. "I let a pair of traitors escape."

"Again!?" Astrid cries, the amusement gone from her pale, beautiful face. "Bren, what is _wrong_?"

"I don't know! They were arrested just outside… it was _the thing_." He's never explained what it is, given it a better name, he doesn't even _know_ really, none of them do, just that it's bad and has been happening more and more.

" _Liebe…_ " Astrid groans. "So that's what's gotten you looking like you're at a funeral." Eod nods meaningfully, Bren hides his face again. "Well, I have some good news for you then," she says. "It's why I came over in the first place."

"What is it?" Eod asks.

"It's gossip, really. You know Trent was off looking for new students? He came back yesterday with just one."

" _Ja_ , and I'm going to beg him on my knees for mercy today," Bren says miserably.

"He's much too preoccupied to be cross with you," Astrid says. He lowers his hands and half glowers at her, wary with disbelief. "I just took her around and brought her to her quarters."

"Wait - so we're not talking a new student, but a new…" Eod points up at the ceiling, makes a circular motion to encompass the three of them. Astrid nods.

There've been other potential candidates over the years. Not many, but a few. None of them have quite worked out. Most were simply transferred into the Academy proper, at no cost to their honor: Bren, Eod, and Astrid were simply _different_. Special. Each with their own skills and weaknesses… for example, Bren's new _pathetic weakness thing_ … the best of friends. Closer than blood. The perfect team.

As if anyone could ever join their ranks.

Bren drops his hand from his forehead to his chin, rubbing it. That all said, for Trent to even consider a new member for their ranks…

"Who is he?" Eod asks.

"She, I said," Astrid says, with a curl of her lips, her voice heavy with disgust. She shakes her head. "Some kid from some farming village. She didn't even apply to the Academy; Dulan found her. Swears she's some genius, but she just looked at the floor the entire time I was showing her around."

"Maybe she's shy," Eod suggests.

Bren scratches his chin. "I should go and talk to him now, yeah? _Ja_ , I'll go do that. Now."

If Trent is excited to have a new pupil, some new child with potential — best now. Now, before the girl fails and becomes just an ordinary magic student, he can apologize and prove himself and maybe — somehow show, he doesn't know, he hasn't a plan formed really, he will a: not ever, ever let _the thing_ happen again, do his duty with pride and honor, and b: maybe, somehow, he can also remind Trent that he exists and is often very good at performing his duty with pride and honor, and much better than some random farmgirl? Trent — Trent is not an unkind mentor. But he does not suffer failure. Understandably.

His heart is pounding low in his stomach. Through the halls, outside, across the grounds, wet grass, rainy afternoon, where has the time — Trent's home, his smaller home on Academy grounds, inside. To his study. Fuck, he left Eod and Astrid behind. He should have asked for their company. Help. Or would that have looked weak?

He knocks on the study door and is told he may enter.

Inside, Bren is glad, very glad, he took the time to scrub and wash. For no reason, for every reason. Something about Trent always makes him stand taller, firmer, frozen. Unable to move. Unless given permission.

The office is wide and narrow, the door roughly at the center, so that it almost appears as two separate chambers: to the left, a small, elegant library with fireplace and books, chairs and a table inlaid with a bone and ebony map of the Empire. To the right, Trent's fine writing desk, tapestries behind. The far wall is made up of large windows, today lashed with drying rain. The desk has only one chair, so any guests must stand before the Archmage until invited to the other end of the room.

Bren stands.

"Brendan. So good to see you. One moment, if you would." Trent smiles up at him and returns to his papers, reading one document and then a next, scrawling a note or remark with his free hand. Bren could try to read what he's writing, peek and see what he's reading. He could, but he doesn't. Doesn't dare. Would never dare. He tries to look attentive but not _too_ attentive, to not let his mind or gaze wander. Counts the seconds and minutes in his head, a trick to keep his mind from wandering, knowing the longer he waits the crosser Trent must be.

Six minutes and eighteen seconds later, Trent folds his hands and looks up at him. "Brendan. My boy."

Bren exhales. "Sir. I came to apologize. No - no doubt you heard that I suffered an… an attack of some kind. Perhaps I'm coming down with a sickness. Nevertheless, I was derelict in my duty and I take full responsibility."

"The… Fulters, was it not?" Trent peers at one of his papers.

"Yes. They had spoken openly against the Empire, and intercepted letters revealed they were planning to flee to the Menagerie Coast. They're currently in Eodwulf's custody. Giving names."

"But they _should_ be dead," Trent says delicately, and it lands like a blow, knocking the wind from Bren's lungs. "We do not need names from them, they have no information we lack. They were to be an example, Brendan."

"I - I'm sorry," Bren stammers.

Trent takes a deep breath, looking him in the face. "Is there something the matter with you?" he asks.

Bren doesn't know what to say.

"Several times now, you have failed to carry out your orders. You are meant to be my best blunt weapon. How can you be a weapon if you do not kill?"

"I kill!" Bren says, taking half a step forward — he doesn't intend to, it's a mistake, but Trent merely raises his eyebrows a tick, not looking away. "It is my honor — it's only happened a few times, and I don't know why. I don't want it to happen!"

Trent considers. "I believe you," he says, and relief crashes over Bren like a wave. "Nevertheless, we must find a solution to your issue." He picks through his papers, thoughtful, and Bren waits, not breathing. "Perhaps it is overwork," Trent says at last, with a wry smile. "Yes. You will undergo additional training for a short while and work light duties. Perhaps a little time is all you need."

"Yes," Bren agrees, his heart pounding and forearms aching with a phantom pain. "Yes, I'm sure that's it."

"Very good," Trent says. "Let's see. I have business to attend to, of course. Let's pick up our lessons next week."

"Thank you," Bren says eagerly. "That would be wonderful."

"In the meanwhile, I'd like to ask a favor of you," Trent says, now folding his hands. "Dulan found a young girl with great potential going to waste in some backwards village down south." Bren nods. "Did you see Astrid? Very good. I'd like you to take her under your wing for the time being. Our dear Astrid isn't a delicate touch, and of course Eodwulf is busy carrying out both his _and_ your duties of late."

Bren feels his sick smile falter.

"Show her around, act as her mentor as she settles in. While you recover from your … _overwork._ "

Trent meets Bren's eyes, has yet to look away, but there is naught left of Bren, really, as he seems to sink and hear the meaning: the thing must not happen again. There are three of them, there must be three of them, and yet because there are three doesn't mean it has to be _these_ three. Not now that there's a fourth.

"Of course," Bren whispers.

Trent smiles. "Thank you." He glances back at his papers. "I have high hopes for _miss_ Veth."


	2. spring (i)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had meant for this to be a lot longer — but then i remembered who i am and that i cannot write things happening _quickly_ , so my idea this would be a 5 part story is now in the trash.
> 
> general footnotes:  
> 1\. i'm making up a lot of this crap because looooore is haaaaaard and this will all be retconned despite it being an au
> 
> 2\. i made up a maiden name for nott/veth here — i really wanted to keep brenatto (yeza took her fucking last name TELL ME I AM WRONG), but for certain Plot Reasons i decided to give her a new one. a lot of people in ye olde times literally just named themselves after the place they were from, sooo.
> 
> 3\. i really enjoy making up fancy food.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He can't stand the smell of wet grass.

He doesn't know why.

 

 

 

 

In honor of Trent's return to the Assembly after such a long trip away, a formal dinner is held at his home the next night.

When they arrive for dinner, Trent has not yet taken his seat: it is his custom to arrive after his other guests, so he can greet them all at once. Bren, Eod, and Astrid are exactly on time, dressed in their formal uniforms, and Bren glances anxiously at the empty seat at the center of the table.

"Look," Astrid whispers, "look who he has sitting at his right." Bren sits at the bench besides Eod and peers over his friend's shoulder, his heart sinking. To the left of Trent's chair, Masters Hass and Tversky are in laughing conversation. A girl sits at Trent's right hand, looking at her lap.

Bren studies his replacement intently, his mouth dry and stomach twisting. She is anywhere between twelve and fifteen, Halfling, and smaller than average on top of that: Master Hass two seats over is noticeably taller. Brown hair in braids, pinned up in some fashion, a ribbon threaded through. Rather than the Academy's uniform, the girl is wearing what looks to be a blouse and some type of kirtle — as if she truly is straight off the farm, with only one good set of clothing to wear.

There is nothing at all special about her. No hint of power or confidence or charm. Just a farm girl from the middle of nowhere, staring at her lap.

Rather than feeling relieved, Bren is terrified. His heart is tight in his chest and he turns away. This —? This is how easily… how quickly he can be replaced? After years of study and work, after doing everything asked, _even_ —

 

 

No.

 

 

After years of study and work, after doing everything asked, happily?

Without question?

Some — some little farm girl? _She_ has been chosen by their master? She's the one who will take his place if he fails?

"Hey," Eod says, slapping the top of Bren's hand. Bren blinks, comes back to himself, realizes he is gripping his forearm so tightly the cloth of his sleeve seems apt to tear.

"Oh. _Danke_."

Astrid gives him a significant look across the table, and leans over towards them both. "I don't know," she says softly, speaking in Zemnian at Bren's incidental cue. A few of the others around them probably know the language, but it's always felt more intimate. It's their dialect. Their words. As fluent and comfortable as they all are in Common, all three still carry traces of accents. Not so when speaking Zemnian, when they sound and speak _right_ , easily, safely. "She started her lessons today. I took her to the Academy myself. Still only spoke around three words to me."

"We weren't that tiny when we came here, were we?" Eod asks with interest.

"She's a halfling, Eod," Astrid says wryly.

"I know that. But look at her, she looks eleven years old."

"She's almost fifteen, I heard. Master Tversky was pleased to have found her; if she'd gotten any older there wouldn't have been much point." Astrid rolls her eyes as if to say _and how sad would that have been?_

In the day and a half since Bren had spoken to Trent, he hadn't yet told his friends about it. Only that their master was disappointed, but not cross, and Bren would be given another chance. The retraining was too embarrassing to mention. And the request to mentor this girl…

Even worse.

Carrot and stick. Get to know this child who will replace you if you fail. Had Trent actually said those words? No. But Bren knows, they all know, that he does not tolerate repeated failure. Maybe this girl's arrival is a coincidence, but maybe… maybe Trent has known about _the thing_ , Bren's new inability to follow orders. Maybe this was all planned. Maybe he has no chance, will be discarded, removed from his home, all to make way for…

A _farm girl_.

He glances sidelong. Master Tversky has leaned over the table, addressing the girl with a smile. She looks up and over at him. Her mouth flickers towards a smile; gives up halfway. She looks back to her lap.

Could this all be a trick? Could maybe she really be just some stupid farm girl, this all be some sort of test or threat — see, Bren? What could happen to you? Next time, maybe you really will have a replacement. He thinks about asking Eod and Astrid — now discussing Eod's day trying to get information from a _Herr_ Roldaal, down in the prison for treason — but he can't form the words. To his right, Lady Iresor is talking about her family to one of the teachers. He listens in mindless and miserable, trying to get his mind off his anxiety, not really taking in any of the words:

To his left, Eod and Astrid discussing interrogation, lively and clever and not fuckups with Trent's eyes upon them. To his right, teachers with families and lives and places to go. No. It's simple. He just — he simply won't. Won't fail. Won't — if this is Trent's test, he will succeed it. He can succeed it.

He must…

 

Only a few minutes later, the doors leading to an antechamber to the side of the dining hall open. Trent enters, and, with a scraping of bench and chairs, his guests all stand in greeting for his arrival, remaining standing as he takes his place at the head of the table, smiling faintly at them all. "Thank you," he says. "Thank you for coming tonight on my behalf." The polite smile vanishes.

Trent surveys the room for a moment, and the air is oddly tense — no one sure if he is about to speak further, no one daring to break their gaze. At last, he nods, and takes his seat. Everyone follows suit, and another set of doors open, servants gliding in with a light soup: lemony broth and watercress and a type of crunchy root that grows at the shores of forest ponds, with a sliver of foie gras at the bottom of each bowl. White wine.

They all wait for Trent before eating, and eat in silence until he turns to speak to Master Hass, at which point conversation resumes around the table. Bren picks at his soup, taking only a few spoonfuls of the broth and offering the rest to Eod after. He eagerly fishes out the foie gras with his spoon.

"You're really bringing the mood down tonight," Astrid murmurs, back in Common, her table manners impeccable.

"Sorry," Bren says. He allows himself a small sigh, rubbing his forehead. "So. What's new with you, then?"

"How nice of you to ask," she says. "There's not much I can say, of course."

" _Ja_ , but you're going to be around for a little while, right?" Eod asks, pointing his spoon at her. Astrid gives the head of the table a meaningful glance, and Eod gently places his spoon at the edge of his plate.

"Yes," she says. Alone of the three of them, she always makes the effort to say the word in proper Common, instead of taking advantage of the space between _yeah_ and _ja_ to speak affirmatives. Bren usually admires her meticulousness, her attention to detail and cleverness. But right now he's too busy worrying about the future. All he thinks is: see? She isn't going to be replaced, because she can do her fucking job. "Although I may head to Zadash in a few weeks, depending on how things go. And how your job goes," she says playfully to Eod.

"Me? Not provide results?" Eod laughs.

They all were given the same initial training, the same initial promise, but over time, of course, the three of them displayed varied aptitudes and skills and their learning branched appropriately. Astrid travels the most of them, seeking information and the seeds of rebellion outside of Rexxingtrum as well as in the city's walls, adept at pulling on threads and uncovering conspiracy. Eod's personality has always been a bit blunter, a bit more relaxed: he's an effective gatherer of information, skilled at dealing with prisoners and traitors, but is happier when he can go home at the end of a long day and relax. His duties at one of the city's hidden prisons suit him well.

Bren, meanwhile, has always been the best of the three at magic. Eod and Astrid are skilled mages, true, but he's always had an edge on them. He can help either or both of them with their duties, and that's the role he usually fills.

Could some new farm girl just…?

(But what exactly is…)

Bren shakes off his thought before it can even fully form, sending a dark look up the table. His stomach sinks: Trent is talking to the girl. He is not smiling, and neither is she, but she is looking up from her lap and up at him. He asks her a question of some kind — she nods and answers. Bren can't quite make out their voices over everyone else's.

Bowls are cleared away, and replaced with plates of hot food: duck breast stuffed with fig and nuts and a strong tart sauce, on a bed of delicately sautéed mushrooms and greens. Red wine.

Eod and Astrid continue to talk, not about work but about Eod's ongoing pursuit of the cook's daughter back at the compound: he doesn't want to marry her, which is the problem, because he _may_ have given both her and her father that impression. Astrid is laughing, her eyes sparkling, offering good advice (just give up, _Liebe_ ) Eod keeps shrugging off. Not even this conversation can improve Bren's mood: he listens blankly and only takes a bite or two of his main course.

The third course — pork braised until blackened and falling apart at the touch over a bed of spinach and anise and tangy fruit, a strong red wine — comes and goes. As does dessert (a pistachio tart with braised cherries, fruity wine).

Bren eats the cherries, and Astrid's when she offers them, but otherwise doesn't eat more than a few bites of anything. He has no appetite.

As dinner is wrapping up, Trent summons the three of them with a gesture. Eod and Astrid are still talking, Bren nodding along when it seems to be required — but even so, they are all always watching. Always paying attention. He lifts his hand and seems to make eye contact with all three immediately, and without a word, they're standing from their benches. Astrid smiling knowingly, tucking away a strand of hair. Eod gives Bren a light pat on the shoulder.

Because of the way the tables are lain out, they must stand behind Trent to approach: he turns his chair to better face them. The base of the farmgirl's chair is raised as Master Hass's is, to accommodate Halfling height, but even so, she isn't at all visible over the back of it, Bren notices.

"My students," Trent says.

"Master Ikithon, thank you for inviting us to this wonderful dinner," Eod says politely.

"Have you enjoyed it?" Trent asks. He smiles faintly. "I noticed you stealing our Brendan's soup."

"What's sharing between friends?" Eod says with a small laugh.

Bren is frozen: of course Trent has been watching. He cares, so of course he would.

"I wanted to formally introduce you three to the newest hopeful addition to your ranks," Trent says, his smile thin. "My dear?" he says to the chair at his right hand.

The farm girl pushes back from the table to turn her chair, and leaves her fingers clutching at the tabletop when she does. Up close, she is freckled, with deep-set eyes and thin lips that lend her a permanently wary expression. Or perhaps she's not shy but dubious. Bren presses his tongue against the sharp edges of his teeth.

"I'm pleased to meet you," she says, her voice surprisingly low for her size. "My name is Veth Felding. Thank you- for welcoming me here. And for being so welcoming."

"You're from Felderwin, aren't you? Any relation?" Eod asks kindly.

Her mouth thins further as she shakes her head, one of her braids escaping its tie and wagging in the movement. "A lot of the people around town have names like that. Felding, Felder… uhm…"

"Winder?" Astrid suggests archly.

The girl pinks and nods.

Bren feels Trent's gaze upon him. "It's nice to meet you," he says stiffly.

She looks up at him warily. Is it wisdom, or is that just how the girl looks? Permanently uncertain and affronted? She nods once more.

"Did you enjoy your first day of lessons?" Astrid asks. "Find one of us tomorrow and we'll talk about your day." Her tone is fairly kind, but she can't quite keep herself from wrinkling her nose: Astrid's politeness is only skin deep unless she's speaking to an actual friend. Normally Bren would smile.

"Okay," the girl says, glancing up and over at Trent.

"Wonderful," says Trent. "Astrid will need to return to her duties, so Brendan will help you settle in from now on." He looks and speaks to the girl, but Bren, looking straight ahead, still sees the flicker of Astrid's glance moving to him.

"Anytime," he says hoarsely, but manages to smile blandly, his arms prickling under his sleeves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The compound they live belongs to the Cerberus Assembly, and to Trent. Much of it is made of places to work and study, but there is a wing where those associated with the Assembly — like Bren and the others — and without families or homes in Rexxingtrum to return to — like Bren and the others — live.

Bren, Eod's, and Astrid's rooms had been identical when assigned, almost ten years prior: three small closets in a line, each with a window, a bed, a desk, a trunk, and a chair. They've long since had the time to decorate the rooms to their tastes.

Astrid comes into his room later that evening. She knocks — they all have their own knocks, Bren always knows if it is Astrid or Eod coming to visit — and he brightens the lamp. "Come in," he calls quietly.

She enters, no longer in her formal uniform, her short hair no longer so carefully arranged. Bren doesn't get up from the desk, doesn't look away from his book, although he hasn't turned a page in twenty minutes at least.

Astrid sits on the bed. "I thought you said things went fine with you and our Master," she asks in Zemnian.

"Did I — what did I say about it?" Bren says in reply. "I didn't think I said anything much." He turns from his book, towards the bed. Most of his room is covered in books and shelving and scattered components, but he'd never decorated or improved the cot: Astrid looks severe surrounded by sparse bedding.

"Then you let us think it," she says, looking at him directly.

Bren thinks about it. "I don't… I don't think I said anything."

Eod knocks at the door. "Come in!" Astrid says in Zemnian, before Bren can even react, and Eod opens the door and steps in.

"I heard you talking," he says in Zemnian, pointing towards the left wall. He shuts the door and picks his way across the room to join Astrid on the bed.

"Did he not tell us our Master wasn't angry with him?" Astrid asks, brushing her fringe from her forehead.

"You did," Eod says agreeably, looking at Bren.

"I didn't say anything to you two!" Bren protests, shifting on his chair so he is sideways, the back at his right arm.

"Then why are you being punished?" Astrid asks, her eyes narrowed slits.

"Our Master is just giving me more training," says Bren.

They never call Trent by name when they're speaking privately, speaking Zemnian. It's nothing they've ever discussed, but something they've always done.

He'd come back from his meeting relieved and strung tightly in turn, all his fears still bouncing in him with no outlet or place to go. He'd spent the afternoon reading here, in his room, and then met his friends for dinner. "I said to you, Master is giving me more training and a chance to prove myself changed, and we're starting next week," he says. "I know that is _exactly_ what I told you."

"You have been awfully gloomy since yesterday," Eod says, glancing about.

"That's just my _nature_."

"True."

"You let us think he wasn't cross with you," says Astrid.

"I don't think he is," Bren says, his voice faltering.

"Of course he is," Eod says, now leaning forward, forearms on his thighs. "He sends you in to kill traitors and you keep freezing up —" Bren starts to say something and Eod raises one hand. "I know you don't _want_ to. But all else aside, he does have tasks that need accomplished, and it looks bad on him when he can't get them done. Right?" he addresses the question to Astrid, whose tasks have always been more political in nature. She nods, her eyes still locked on Bren.

"And I can be retrained. I _will_ be retrained, and happily."

"What exactly _is_ 'the thing?'" Astrid asks. They both look at her. "I know 'the thing' means you freeze up, but why does it happen?"

"If I knew, my life would be much less complicated right now," Bren says, rubbing his arm.

"What exactly did happen the other day, with the traitors? Did they say something? Do something to attack you?"

Bren looks down at his knees, trying to think.

The Fulters were traitors, planning to flee to the Menagerie Coast. They were loud and open opponents of the Empire, and their connections with Rexxingtrum's decent society were well known: there had been a dinner party a month ago where they had loudly spoken, to a dozen people and an informant, of various treacherous thoughts and intentions. It had been decided that they would be made an example of, which is when Bren had been brought in. He had waited outside the home for half a rainy spring morning until the family had been home. He was to kill them both and then set their home and property ablaze: go in and out without detection. Everyone would _know_ the Empire had dealt with the traitors, but no one was to know who informed or who executed them.

It didn't matter how they died so long as they did, and Bren had intended on doing it the usual way — quick and fairly painless, he had no sympathy for them, of course, but took no particular pleasure in the act of killing — but then —

"I don't know," he says, his fingers clenching in his lap.

"You, with your perfect memory?" Astrid asks, her voice sharp.

"It was all pretty normal, and then all at once…"

They had a son. Not a babe who Bren could be forgiven for having reservations about killing. A boy of about twelve, who rather than accepting his death bravely had begun to weep. His mother had rushed up and enfolded him in her arms. That was truly the last thing that Bren remembers clearly, but he can't say it. Will never say it. Not even to his dearest friends.

"I don't know," he says again, shaking his head. "What matters is that this — this _hesitation_ needs to be fixed, and our Master has promised to help me."

Eod crosses one leg over his knee. "I can understand both sides of it," he says at last, thoughtfully. "Obviously you want to do better and can't help whatever is happening, but you're still letting him down."

"Of course," Bren says, glad for this minute shift in the conversation. "I understand that too. We all do, I think."

"So why do you think he's mad?" Eod asks Astrid, glancing at her.

She still has that intense, focused look in her eyes. "Because of this silliness with the halfling girl."

Bren can't help his wince of distaste at the mention of her, the memory of her ugly little face.

"That can't be related to all this," Eod says.

"It's carrot and stick, do you think?" Bren asks hopelessly. Astrid half shrugs, half nods.

"How do you mean?" Eod asks, now frowning.

"I follow this new girl with potential around, I see that she's good at her lessons, and I realize that if I don't improve it'll be her in this room, speaking with you two late at night," Bren says dully.

"I doubt some country girl speaks Zemnian," Eod says with a faintly sardonic smile.

"But…" Bren waves his arm.

"You have years of training on her, and she'd have to pick up a lot of magic very quickly to even compete," Eod says with more confidence.

"What jobs do you have coming up?" Astrid asks.

"Training next week, and this girl in the meanwhile," Bren says.

"No." Astrid shakes her head. "I mean, what jobs?"

There's a beat in which Eod shifts uncomfortably.

"I was removed from them after last week's debacle," Bren says slowly. "I haven't been officially reassigned yet. Master said I could work light duties…"

Usually, each of them has three or four things they're working on at a time. Eod will have several prisoners to work with, Astrid will have weeks long assignments all through the Empire, and Bren will have executions and assassinations supplemented with odd jobs for Trent: help Eod with this, help Astrid with that. Sometimes research, which Bren always enjoys. When one task is completed, another quickly follows. There are times when they have lighter schedules, time for leisure.

Never a time where they have no assignments at all.

It all sinks in on them slowly.

This girl isn't a potential replacement. Bren has already been replaced.


End file.
